A Lesson in Futility
by Quatre-sama
Summary: Lord Wyldon doesn't know how to end what he's started with Kel... Kel-Wyldon romance, of sorts


**A Lesson in Futility**

Battle fever had done less predictable things to a man before. Some warriors made their errors on the eve of battle, worrying that it might be their last night of life. Some found that their adrenaline and sense of omnipotence hurt them in the actual fight. Others made their mistakes when they returned.

Wyldon was in the latter group. He realized it when he collapsed, exhausted, against the length of Keladry of Mindelan's body the night after a rigorous battle at New Hope. He had been visiting the camp, checking on the supplies during the lull of war, and they had their toughest battle since the killing devices were destroyed. She would have been killed, had he not acted as swiftly as he did. And there was something in her eyes when she looked at him, later in the evening as the refugees, soldiers and knights celebrated, that made the tiny thought in the back of his mind become more prominent; a small idea became an overwhelming desire. In the light of survival, mutual respect had become mutual lust.

One-sided lust was easy enough to deal with. Wyldon had known that feeling before, and simply thrust it aside to be ignored or dealt with later. But when he felt as though he needed to have her, and she had looked at him with those bewitching hazel eyes and cautiously touched his hand, an inferno was ignited.

It can't be called love-making if it's only sex. And Wyldon hadn't had sex without love in years. Decades, really. He had forgotten what it was like to caress an unfamiliar body, to feel the thrill of unbridled excitement as they explored one another. His bedroom life had been satisfying, but never as exhilarating as his first year of marriage. This – this was like a drug.

And even though he knew it was a mistake – a result of rushing adrenaline – he had become addicted to the sensations. He loved that – when stretched out together on a military cot – her toes brushed his, for she was only inches shorter than him. He took pleasure in the fact that they had to press up against one another, as the cot was not made like his wide, feather bed at home, and two people could not lie comfortably without their bodies overlapping. And little had thrilled him more than the way she arched her back, gazing at him through those Mithros-cursed beautiful lashes whenever she climaxed, raking her fingers across his back. And he thanked his god that she did not have the elegant long fingernails of a lady at court.

The addiction was mutual; neither of them could keep their hands off one another, even though their affections were committed elsewhere. He could tell by the way her eyes lingered on the sergeant from the King's Own, and how she was quick to smile when they spoke. But each night that she was at Mastiff – each time he visited New Hope – her hands, her mouth, her body was his even if her heart was elsewhere.

He had learned much about her their first time together; for all the sullying of her name he had heard over the years, and for every bad thought he'd ever thought of women distracting men in the military, she was a virgin. And while she had done so well over the years to mask her emotions - displaying a half-smile or a slight widening of the eyes when she really felt delight or shock – she was full of feelings that he had never thought to look deeply for. Their first night together she had laughed more than he thought capable; she had gasped in delight and moaned with pain and pleasure. He liked the fact that every touch brought out a new expression from her, and therefore spent the evenings learning new ways to make her express herself.

As interesting as it was to provoke each sigh, as wonderful as it was to feel her legs locked around him and her lips on his neck, he knew that it had to end. Like any addiction, it was a problem. It was the fault of a weak mind and weaker body, and in the manner of an addiction to drink or gambling, others would be hurt in the process.

Vivenne would be devastated, he knew. And Kel herself was being hurt, throwing her mind and body into a form of relationship that was not healthy. Perhaps even her sergeant would be hurt, if he felt for Kel as she did for him. It would have to end. But every time he tried to start the conversation, they found their attention drawn to matters of the flesh instead of matters of the heart. Someday, he told himself. The war would end someday, and things could return to how they once were.


End file.
